


Fear

by bri_ness



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: But canon compliant if you take it as canon that Even's a witch?, M/M, Magical Realism, Mental Health Issues, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 21:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18646852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bri_ness/pseuds/bri_ness
Summary: Even knows he's a witch. He believes he's a villain. The two are unrelated.Then, he meets Isak.





	Fear

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something completely different? This fic is brought to you by:
> 
> 1\. A tumblr prompt: "Why are you shaking?"  
> 2\. Reading a lot of Holly Black this weekend  
> 3\. Rino assuring me that as long as I wrote witch Even, I didn't need an actual plot. And for always validating me when I shamelessly ask for it. 
> 
> This is quite different for me, so I hope you like it! Please mind the tags as it does get a little dark in parts, but it's a happy ending.

When Even learned that he was a witch, he expected more of a show.

After all, he was the boy who got caught up in the details of fairy tales. He’d ask his aunt to reread the passages that described the monster’s crooked smile of sharp, rotting teeth, then spend hours trying to draw the image, trying to control it before his mind filled in other horrendous details of hollow eyes and long fingers ending in curved claws. He’d ask her to voice each character in the story, from wolf’s growl to the witch’s cackle, finding safety in the noises that scared him coming from someone he trusted instead of his own imagination. He’d ask her to repeat spells cast by heroes and villains alike, committing them to memory in case he ever needed some magic for himself.

So, if he was a creature himself, shouldn’t his teeth have extended into something truly deadly? His little cousin already, somewhat rudely, called them vampire fangs. Or his voice should’ve lowered in pitch, taken on a scratchy, gravelly tone, become the base for a laugh that could be played on loop in haunted houses. And the spells, well. Those were real, but they lacked rhyme schemes, wordplay, _tricks_ —anything clever enough to suggest it might also be wicked.

Even expressed all of this to his aunt. Not surprised that he was a witch, not surprised that she’d been one his entire life, but surprised that they didn’t wear that ugly difference as they wore their other ones.

“You’re a witch, Even,” she said. “You are not a villain.”

But Even was sixteen when he learned this, one manic episode and more hurt than he knew he could cause behind him. For all Even’s longing to look like the monsters that terrified him, he had never wanted to hurt anyone.

His aunt explained their magic in the saddest way there is to explain magic. “Think of what you want,” she said. “And say it out loud.”

“No spells?” Even asked.

“No, there are spells,” she said.  Just say: _I want this cup of tea to be hotter._ And then it’ll be hotter.”

“So hot it burns your tongue?” Even asked, his own concept of magic being that it’s not to be used excessively or frivolously, that it’s dangerous, that it’s as much a trickster as the witch employing it is.

“Only if you ask for that.”

It was all so _simple_ that it was a bit annoying. Magic was not supposed to follow the rules.

“Then why don’t you tell people that you’re a witch?” he asked. “If it’s all so harmless?”

“Even, people like us—the world’s already looking for a reason to burn us on a stake. We don’t need to give them another.”

She’d said that before, about the world trying to burn her, when Even was probably too young to hear that kind of thing.

“And, other people can affect your magic,” she continued. “Some feelings are stronger than it. If you have those feelings towards another person, your magic is useless around them. That’s why you’ve never seen me cast a spell.”

Surely there were other reasons as well, but Even appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

“So, if you love someone?” Even asked.

“Only if it’s strong enough,” she said. “I only have it for you and your mother. My power, of lack thereof, has shown that.”

It was an impossibly sad declaration to Even. She was married.

“But you need to remember that hate’s a strong emotion too,” his aunt continued. “No one can truly love a witch, Even. They see that you have power, that you have something they don’t—that’s what turns people into villains. People will make you hate the world until they regain control over you. And sometimes, they’ll do that by pretending to love you.”

Even wanted to ask _does that really happen?_ , but of course it did, or else his aunt wouldn’t have this story to tell. And he didn’t want to hear anything else that was impossibly sad, because those things scared him more than a wolf in the woods ever would.

“You’ve always been magical, Even,” she said. “Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

\---

Even used his magic for stupid things.

To discern what he wanted to watch on Netflix without spending fifteen minutes scrolling. To do his homework on more than one occasion, but just math. He hated math. To make himself a single inch taller—he didn’t want to get too greedy.

Never on other people. At first.

\---

Even used his magic for terrible things.

To keep people away from him when they were too stupid to realize that’s where everyone was safest. To a wipe a police officer’s memory after she caught him breaking and entering. To make Sonja say awful things to him just so he had an excuse to say them back.

He tried to change his diagnosis. It didn’t work. When he asked his aunt why, she said magic couldn’t change things that were fundamental to who you were. She joked that it couldn’t make him straight either, as though he’d ever wish for that.

But it was pretty fucking inconvenient, and also pretty fucking contradictory since everyone kept telling him that he wasn’t his diagnosis. Which one was it? Who was he?

He knew, really.

Alone in his hospital bed, the loneliness and the hospital both his own doing, he cast a spell on himself.

“I want teeth so gruesome I’m ashamed to smile. I want eyes that people can’t look into without seeing blood. I want claws that would pierce anyone who tried to hold my hand. I want a voice that chills people into silencing me. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to look like I would.”

It was another way to kill himself, but it didn’t work either.

Even began to shake, his magic unable to overcome who he was.

\---

When Even’s aunt died, he was mad at her for not teaching him everything about magic.

Love and hate were stronger than it, but grief was too.

He couldn’t bring her back.

\---

Even’s magic stopped working, even for stupid things. He hated his parents for how many chances they gave him. He hated Sonja for controlling him. He hated his teachers for failing him. He hated his friends for not knowing to abandon him. He hated his aunt for dying, for warning him away from people, for her fucking genetics. Being a bipolar witch was just one too many things to be.

Even didn’t, really, hate anyone but himself. And he was always around himself.

\---

Even met Isak.

Isak, who operated in strong feelings, who wore them on his face and in his body language, who was so damn beautiful that Even thought he was what magic looked like. Who would deny, deny, deny that any of those things were true about himself.

“You can’t escape your thoughts,” Even said to him, early on. “The only way is to die.”

“That’s dark, though.”

Even did not like that Isak was scared, but it was about time someone had enough sense to be scared of the witch.

\---

Isak had a different kind of love.

It was stubborn and strong, brave to the point of being idiotic. He got over whatever fear he had, and Even almost was envious of that. After all, Even still felt a chill remembering the witch capturing Rapunzel, poisoning snow white, cursing Sleeping Beauty. He wondered what it was like not to be scared of others. He wondered what it was like not to be scared of yourself.

And Isak started to show him, slowly and subtly. He asked careful, thoughtful questions about Even’s illness, about his past, when they both knew he wouldn’t like the answer. He treated the answers with confidence and respect. He kissed Even in public, posted about them on Instagram, chose to feel pride instead of the shame he’d been taught. He ensured Even went to the appointments he needed to go to, even when Even got pissed at him for it. He repaired a relationship with his mom where fear had overpowered love.

He was a remarkable person. That was the only word Even could assign to him. Remarkable.

And when Even tried one day, just out of curiosity, to use his magic to fix the dessert he’d burnt, it worked.

His hate had subsided.

\---

There are bad days, still.

Isak knows that he was not the first person Even cheated on Sonja with. He knows the worst thing Even ever said to his parents. He knows that Even tried to kill himself.

He does not know that Even’s a witch. It just feels like a lot.

And sometimes, coming out of a bad day, one where he was unkind, or impulsive, or selfish, whether the result of an episode or not, Even still checks his fingernails for claws.

As he did when he was a kid, he draws that image before he loses himself to it. It’s different from the cartoons he favours nowadays, which aim to land somewhere between funny and romantic.

Isak says as much when he peeks over Even’s shoulder. “That’s different.”

Even shields it with his hand, a bit embarrassed, and Isak catches on. “I like it, though," Isak says. It’s dark, but sometimes you need to look at dark things.”

Even wants to apologize, as though he’s responsible for all darkness in Isak’s life, as though he was not the first light that cut through it the same way Isak was for him. On a good day, he’ll understand that, but this is not a good day.

“You’ve been working all afternoon,” Isak says in Even’s silence. “So I, uh, made you some tea? And before you say anything, Sana taught me to boil the water.”

Even can’t help his laugh, even though he feels like he should. “ _Wow._ I didn’t realize you were using advanced culinary skills.”

“Shut up.”

But it’s sweet, Isak is so sweet.

The tea, while hot, is a bit weak. Knowing Isak, Even knows he would not have the patience to steep it for longer than a minute. With Isak gone back to the kitchen to get himself a beer, Even whispers, “I want this tea to be stronger.”

His fingers tremble, the tea splashing on his artwork, and Even’s stunned. He sips the remaining tea to confirm his suspicion—no, it still tastes like hot leaf water. It’s been awhile since his magic’s failed.

It’s a bad day, but has he really backtracked that much? Does he hate himself again?

Isak rejoins him in the living room, a curious expression on his face.

“Even? Why are you shaking?”

\---

It’s love. The real kind, not the impossibly sad kind.

It’s takes the rest of the day for Even to get Isak to believe he’s a witch, and it’s his own fault. He likes messing with Isak, spinning stories until even he’s forgotten the truth, but it’s led to a boy-who-cried-wolf reputation. Or in this case, boy-who-cried-witch.

Isak, understandably, has questions.

“Like in Harry Potter?” he asked.

“Not that cool, unfortunately.”

“Do you…brew potions?”

Even smiles; he never expected to hear the phrase _brew potions_ from Isak’s mouth. “I wish.”

“What about spells?”

Even nods. “I’d show you, but they don’t work around people I love.”

Isak narrows his eyes. “I was starting to believe you, but I swear Even, if you’re fucking with me—”

“Ok, when you saw me shaking? That’s what happens when my spells fail. Here, I’ll show you again.”

Isak sits up straight, like he’s bracing himself for a scene out of a movie where sparks of magic fly through the air. He’s going to be as disappointed as Even was.

“I want Isak to get a six pack,” Even says.

“Hey.”

But Isak’s distracted from his own indignation by Even’s fingers, trembling again. He watches them carefully, like he’s looking for a tell that Even’s controlling his own reaction, but they both know Even’s never been great at that.

“Does it hurt?” Isak asks, gentle now.

“No.”

“And it means that you love me?”

“Of course.”

“It’s not right, though. That loving me takes something away from you.”

Isak looks scared again. It’s Even’s turn to be brave.

“You haven’t taken anything from me,” Even says, meaning it. “It’s not only love that prevents the magic from working. It’s any strong feeling, so when I hated myself—”

“Oh.”

“It was a blessing, in a way. I would’ve hurt myself with it. I tried to.”

Isak takes his trembling hand because they don’t always need words, and that inspires Even’s next point.

“You’re magical, Isak. You are better than anything I’ve ever let myself wish for. My magic’s only failing because it’s pointless compared to you.”

“You are, too. I mean, I know you’re literally magical, but you get the point.”

Finally, Even does. He is not the villain, nor are those in his life. They are all just people doing their best to love one another. Some just happen to be witches, but maybe that just makes it more fun.

He’s not scared anymore.


End file.
